by Will R Bird
In the next cellar the same condition existed. Hughey was there, a hairy, thick-shouldered man; Joe, an ex-policeman; Charley, an old school mate of mine; Billy, a man who always complained; Glenn, a giant of a fellow bred beside the sea; Gordon, big-framed and good-natured; Christensen, a Dane; Eddie, an athlete from my home town; and Jerry, a fine, clean-living youngster away from home for the first time. There were a few others lined up in a passageway between, but these men were my friends. Tommy and I went above and explored our area. A path led around ruins to numerous other dugouts and cellars. We went down one entrance and looked around. It had splendid bunks and was fitted with hooks for equipment and rifles, and was heated by braziers. “They shoved us in that hole because we’re new,” blazed Tommy, when we were outside again. “It’s the old army game.”
“Sure,” I agreed, “but in six months’ time we’ll do the same with other new ones.”
“That don’t fix things now,” he growled, and we went on down a side path to where light glimmered from an odd corner. As we looked a man came out of the low entrance, and he dragged his pack after him.
“Are you chaps looking for a billet?” he asked.
“You bet,” said Tommy.
“Go right in there, then,” said the man. “There’s bunks and a stove and extra blankets.”
Ten minutes later Earle and Laurie and Baxter and Tommy and I were in that cellar. Our equipment was hung in place and we were reposing on our different beds. No one came to disturb us and we had a comfortable night, the best we had had in France.
Next day Tommy and I went outside and looked around. We saw signs, “Keep low. Use trench in daytime,” and we went along the trench until we came to a Y.M.C.A. canteen. We had money and so we bought plenty of tinned goods and chocolate and went back to our little home. There we stayed all day. At night we went again and found the sergeant-major’s place. He was a dour-faced man, very Scotch, but we knew instantly that he was a “white” man and never had occasion to alter our opinion. We asked for mail and he piled out letters, over sixty for the five of us. On the way back we met Mickey. “How did you like it?” he asked.
“Like what?” blurted Tommy.
“The working party.” Then Mickey told us that all of his crowd, all of the draft but us, had gone to some distant trench and filled and emptied sandbags until nearly morning. It had rained and was beastly cold, and the new men were used like dogs, so he said. We grinned at each other and went back to our billet.
For three days we drew rations and stayed in that cellar and then, through Tommy being anxious to see what the front was like, we ventured out and “fell in” with the crowd. The sergeant in charge stared at us, but said nothing. He was a small man with a vitriol tongue and seemed to resent us. We were given in charge of a corporal, Stevenson, a veteran of South Africa, and went down a long trench until we were at the front. I thrilled. At long last I had arrived.
We had got used to the slamming roar of gun fire, and now we heard machine guns barking and snapping, and bullets came singing overhead to go swishing into the distant darkness. Some struck on wire or other obstructions and we heard the sibilant whine of ricochets. We had sandbags to fill. One man held them and the other shovelled in the gruel-like mud. When twenty or more were done, a man jumped up on top and emptied the bags as they were handed up to him. It was ticklish work and one often had to jump into the trench as bullets were humming about all night.
We got soaked to the skin. The cold slime ran down our wrists as we lifted the bags, and we stood so long in the mire that our feet were numbed, sodden things. All that next day we growled at Tommy for having caused us such displeasure, and at night Stevenson sought us out. We were to go, Tommy and Arthur and I, to an emplacement used by a big mortar they called the “flying pig.”
When we got there we noticed a peculiar odour. All that shapeless ruin of Neuville St. Vaast stank of decay and slime, but this new smell halted us. A corporal stepped from the gloom. “Here’s bags,” he said. “Go in there and gather up all you can find, then we’ll bury it back of the trench. Get a move on.”
A flying pig had exploded as it left the gun and three men had been shredded to fragments. We were to pick up legs and bits of flesh from underfoot and from the muddy walls, place all in the bags and then bury them in one grave. It was a harsh breaking in. We did not speak as we worked. When we were done the corporal told us we could go back, we were through, but Tommy and I lingered in a bay and stared over the dark flickeringly-silhouetted landscape.
Over the tangle of wire in front lay the no man’s land about which we had heard. Not two hundred yards away were the Germans in their trenches, and I wondered if there were Tommys and Arthurs and Big Hermans among them. Then I thought of Steve and wondered what it had been like up Ypres way when he arrived, and I thought of Phyllis, the last glimpse I had had of her face, cameo-like in the light of a window. A thin stalk of silver shot up as we looked, curved over in a graceful parabola and flowered into a luminous glow, pulsating and wavering, flooding the earth below with a weird whiteness. It was a Very light. We craned our necks and stared. Jumbled earth and debris, torn earth, jagged wreckage; it looked as if a gigantic upheaval had destroyed all the surface and left only a festering wound. Everything was indefinite and ugly and distorted.
We continued doing working parties, and gradually we got acquainted with the rest of the company. The men were not our equals in physique and, I saw, not of equal mentality. Given equal chances and we had no need to ask favours of them in any matter. The “originals” held themselves aloof, the others were fairly friendly.
We went back to Mount St. Eloi and were billeted in huts on the hillside. It was wet and freezing cold at night. There was little attempt to drill, for which we were truly thankful. At last we had reached a land where the most important items were not the correctness of a slope or the forming of fours by numbers.
After the first day of sleeping and resting the men grew garrulous, and we listened eagerly to all they said. The order against fraternizing with the Germans on Christmas Day was first jeered at, and then flying pigs and “Minnies” were compared. We heard different craters mentioned glibly, such as Patricia Crater, Common Crater, Birken, Durand, and Vernon, and then we learned that an officer and party had rushed across at dusk on New Year’s Eve and captured two German prisoners without incurring a casualty. They had slipped across no man’s land without being seen and had completely surprised the two enemy sentries. I was thrilled as I listened. What adventure! Tommy could hardly remain still, and he whispered to me about it after the lights were out.
Across from me there slept a Scotchman who was always singing “Maggie frae Dundee,” or quarreling with Stevenson, who had charge of the hut. Next him was a tall clean-built man, MacMillan, an original 92nd man. He and I became friends, and he told me about the Somme, and what he said sank in my memory.
We had been a month in France when we went back for our second trip in the line. It was the first week of January and the wind was raw with driving rain. Once more we were on working parties, this time in the “Quarry Line,” cleaning trenches and helping with dugouts. At nights the Very lights soared like great soap bubbles and often there were salvos of shells near us. There would be a screaming, whistling sound, a clanging, crashing explosion, and clods of earth and chalk would come flying about, then smoke and fume would drift across the trench and sting our nostrils.
All this time we had not got to know an officer, and had seldom seen one. They were in better quarters, we knew, and would not come through the mud and rain to bother us. One night Tommy and I were detained by Stevenson, who was determined to finish a parapet before we returned. We were very wet and cold and the rations were slim, six men to a loaf of bread, and only a few hard tack and tins of bully to help out. The hot tea and occasional mulligan were very acceptable. We got our mess-tins from our bunks and went over to the corner where a sullen-faced man dished out “the dinner.” He stayed in the dugout a
nd heated it in dixies over a very “gassy” fire, and we did not envy him his lot, though he avoided all shell-fire. There was no tea for us, he said, and as we stood looking at one another Stevenson came and got his mess-tin full. I stepped forward and looked in the dixie. There was plenty more in it, and I said so very clearly. The cook looked up and snarled that we had better be in France five minutes before starting to run things, and Tommy took charge. He offered eagerly to make the fellow’s face much less an ornament than it was, and gave him just one short minute to fill his mess-tin. The cook looked up and down, and gave us our portion. Later, when we were supposed to be sleeping, I heard the “oldtimers” discussing us. It was agreed that it would be a bad policy to try to “run” us, and the cook had little sympathy.
The next night there was great excitement. An officer and four men were to try to rush an enemy post on Patricia Crater. We waited tensely after they had gone. Not a sound was heard over the way, then, much later, they returned. They had gotten over safely without being seen, but when they entered the German post no sentries were there. Dumbfounded, they waited, and waited, resolving to capture the first Hun to pass along. None came and the moon began to rise, shedding too much light for a safe return. So they cautiously withdrew before any “goose stepper” came to their clutches.
We felt old soldiers as we went back to Mount St. Eloi that time, and “Maggie frae Dundee” rang out merrily. We ragged Freddy but he remained as inconsolable as ever. Big Herman kidded him continually. This time there were parades and we saw our company commander, a genial-looking gentleman whose appearance I rather liked. We were marched to baths, an old building the wind whistled through, and which was floored with muddy slime. There was a tiny trickle of water from overhead pipes, always failing when a man succeeded in soaping himself before he became too cold to endure the operation. We had little soap and we slipped about on the greasy surface and helped each other all we could. When we went to get dressed we found ourselves with shirts we could not enter, with unmatched socks, anything a bleary-eyed assistant cared to pitch our way.
When we went back to the line our sergeant told me that I would be one for Vernon Crater, and from the way he said it I judged that something was unusual. I asked questions and learned that it was a three-sentry post not usually held in daylight, and not over fifty yards from the German lines. We were to hold it for four days.
We went into the trenches heavily laden. It was bitterly cold and all the ground was frozen hard. We wore leather jerkins over our greatcoats and had socks pulled over our hands in place of gloves; there had only been enough of the latter to supply the oldtimers. It was very clear weather and every sound carried, so that we moved carefully and slowly. The main trench was a long black-shrouded ditch full of dark figures, scuffling, muttering to each other, and there were hissed curses when a steel helmet clanged against a rifle.
We reached a low-walled sap where a sentry stood and pointed to Smaillie, the lance-corporal in charge. Up we went, moving carefully, bowed over like skulking Indians. We were relieving the Princess Pats and four of their men came hurriedly by us and went on to the main trench. Our post was a wide affair, in three sections. In the right-hand corner, like an enlarged well with a firestep, two men were placed, a short lad, Dunbar, one of our draft, and Doucette, another. They were to take turns in doing sentry in that position. On the left, ten yards from them, was a similar post, and in it were Laurie and old “Dundee.” I was at the centre post, a cup-like hollow, and MacMillan was my mate. Behind us was a roofed space about six feet square and in it Smaillie stayed. He had a seat there, and his flares and pistol, as well as extra bombs and ammunition. A blanket was hung over the rear entrance.
We prepared to meet the cold. I had drawn sandbags over my boots and tied them at the knee and ankle. We had on our woollen caps underneath the steel helmets, and little cloth gas bags to put our heads in in case of gas attack. They were frightful arrangements with nozzles to breath through, and we were glad when the box respirators arrived. We had sandbags over our rifle muzzles, and kept breech covers on them all the time. Our rations, mess-tins, and haversacks were in the shelter with Smaillie.
MacMillan told me all there was to learn about sentry duty, and I did not duck when the first flares went up. We could hear plainly the Germans coughing in their trenches, hear them walking on frozen boards, and hear the creaking of a windlass drawing chalk up from some dugout. The first night passed uneventfully. At daylight we put up small periscopes on slivers stuck in the sandbagged parapet and watched in them till dark. Several times during the day we heard “fish tails” and “darts,” German grenades, going over into our lines, but none came near us.
The next night I saw my first uncaptured German. I had looked at prisoners in the cages back of the lines, and saw their queer top boots and gray uniforms with the two buttons at the back of the tunic, but now I had seen a real enemy. He was only a boy, as young-looking as Mickey, and he was standing waist-high above his trench wall as one of our flares burst directly above him and placed him in dazzling light.
He did not move at first, but his face looked very white and ghost-like, and then I knew that he had seen me for I was standing as high as he on our side. Some wild impulse caused me to wave to him – later I would not have done it – and he waved back. The light flicked out and I jumped down as MacMillan cursed me soundly. After midnight I stepped back to talk with Smaillie and as it was bright moonlight pushed aside the blanket at the rear and looked out. Ping! A bullet embedded itself in the wooden post beside me. I ducked in again, very frightened. A few minutes later there were hurried steps outside. It was a corporal from the trench and he had come to see if I were hit or not. A new draft of men, mostly New Brunswickers, French-Canadians, had come into the line and had been placed on duty. One of them had thought I was a German, had been watching our post, and only his poor aiming had saved me. I felt shaky for a time.
The third night in we saw more Germans. A light snow had fallen and whitened the scalloped wilderness between the lines. There was a wrecked cart near the German wire, and I used the part of a wheel that was above the mud as a guide when looking in the periscope. As I peered at it in the night it blotted out, then appeared again. I told MacMillan and he was instantly alert. In a short time he had detected two of the enemy crawling towards us. We had visions of special leave and medals if we could capture those two prowlers, but we felt that if the rest were to assist there would be little more than a complimentary message from the colonel. So we prepared to catch the pair ourselves. We stripped our greatcoats and equipment with great haste, shed our steel hats and examined our rifles. Unluckily mine had been stood at the back of the post and water from melted snow had run down the barrel and frozen. MacMillan’s had the breech uncovered and it was a lump of mud and ice. We could not use the Lee-Enfields, and we jumped for bombs. If the Germans had come to that post that hour they would have had an easy time. We could only use our bayonets. The bombs were little blocks of frozen mud, and we could not clean them in time to use them. We worked frantically with our army issue knives, and the Germans, after a few minutes crawling around, slipped back under their wire and disappeared.
When morning came we had cleaned our rifles and bombs and everything was in working order. We told Smaillie what we had seen and he sent up flares during the dark hour before dawn, fearing that a raid might be intended. I was quite excited and MacMillan was also nervous. Each morning a sergeant had brought in a rum issue just before it was light, and always there was a surprise because I did not care for mine. Six of our draft would not take it. This morning the sergeant was a little late, and an officer was with him. As they served the rum they talked to us and the officer seemed a very fine man. When I did not take my rum he told the sergeant to give my share to old “Dundee.” Then he put his foot on the firestep and said he wanted to look over, as he had been told that our post was the nearest of any to the German trench. I told him it was not safe to look, that snipers had s
hot away my periscope not five minutes before. He said he would move quickly, and rose up. I was so close that I seized him without reaching and tried to hold him back. It was too late. Clang! His steel helmet flew back over the rear wall and lodged in the wire, and brains and blood were spilled all over the front of my overcoat and on my arms as the officer sank down at my feet. He had been shot between the eyes with an explosive bullet that had torn his helmet away, breaking the strap under his chin. It was the first death I had witnessed and yet I found myself strangely calm. I straightened the dead man in the trench, leaving just room enough to stand beside him, and placed a clean sandbag over his face. MacMillan was as white as paper and trembling.
We told the others what had happened and the sergeant rushed over from “Dundee’s” corner, swearing wildly. There was nothing he could do, however, but go back and report, and we could not remove the corpse until it was dark again. The sergeant went down the sap on his hands and knees as it was getting lighter. Old “Dundee” was like a wild man. He cursed the Germans and proceeded to clean his rifle, swearing vengeance. I heard a report and rushed to his post. Laurie was standing there looking quite pale. “Dundee” had let off his rifle as he cleaned it and the bullet had gone under Laurie’s legs and struck an iron post, splintering itself. One fragment had gone through the top of his foot and it stung him sharply. “Dundee” was shaking and wilder than ever; he had had too much rum. He suddenly raised up and put his rifle over the parapet. Crack! He fell back before he could pull the trigger. The bullet had gone in his cheek on one side and out his eye on the other. He threshed about in agony and blood poured from him. Laurie got out his field dressing and he and MacMillan bandaged the old chap as well as they could but the bleeding would not stop. We looked at each other. The orders were that no one was to leave the post in daylight, but could we let old “Dundee” bleed to death? I tore off my equipment and started down the sap as I had seen the sergeant do, and Smaillie did not check me. I was half way along it when I tired of slow crawling and rose in a crouching position and ran. Crack! A bullet burned the back of my neck just as a hot iron would have done. I dropped and crawled the rest of the way, and was very scared when I reached the main trench. A stretcher-bearer and our sergeant at once went back with me, taking a stretcher with them, and a runner was sent to make sure the doctor was at his dugout. We got back to the post without incident and got old “Dundee” on the stretcher. Taking him out was a terrible task. He would not lay quiet or listen to orders, and had to be forced down while the stretcher was worked along the sap, dragged and pushed by the men at either end. They were an hour getting him to the main trench. All day I sat beside the dead man.